


As You Wish

by Defira



Series: Wild Mage [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Vivienne, the First Enchanter of the now defunct Montsimmard Circle of Orlais, joined the fledgling Inquisition under Corinne Trevelyan under the express understanding that she would be working to secure peace across Thedas, and to restore a system to provide protection and education to the mages of the realms. So far, her aspirations have not quite been on par with those of Corinne, a Rivaini wild mage disowned by her Marcher family, and her frustrations grow when Corinne takes steps to invite Ferelden to provide an ambassador to Skyhold.</p>
<p>Bann Teagan Guerrin is not a young man anymore, and he had hoped he had left his more elaborate escapades in his youth, but when duty comes knocking in the form of an ambassadorial posting to Thedas' newest wild card, a stateless nation fuelled by fanaticism perched right on their own border, he has no other option but to answer the call. </p>
<p>In one another, Vivienne and Teagan discover a stalwart ally, a surprising friend- and perhaps even love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Vivienne liked to consider herself prepared for any eventuality, a master strategist when it came to political intrigues and the power plays of the upper echelons of society. It was, after all, how she had so carefully engineered her own rise to a place of prosperity and safety, a place from which she intended to change the world. 

Power, she had found, was not something one relinquished without a fight- power ensured your future survival, after all. 

Which was why she found herself so utterly baffled as she sat with the woman who had the opportunity to reshape the very world itself, and yet...

“I beg your pardon, my dear, I do believe I misheard you,” she said, setting her tea cup down on the side table. The delicate lemony scent did little to settle her nerves. “You intend to _return_ Caer Bronach to the Fereldans?”

The woman before her was... _well_. It was understandable at a first glance why most mistook her for a stablehand- Corinne had very little sense of gravitas, and utterly no grasp of fashion. One would expect that a woman as prestigious as the Herald of Andraste would at the very least have some measure of control over her body, but she was angular, gangly, almost coltish; even if she did move with the most startling fluidity that belied her long-legged frame, she was far more prone to slouch across chairs and move to her own bizarre rhythm than to act with any sort of grace or finesse. 

Today was no different. Her blouse had a distressingly large number of dirt marks, and her breeches were utterly ragged around the hem, loose threads trailing underfoot where she’d worn them out. Her fingernails were nightmarish, and Vivienne was doing her best not to look at them. 

Corinne smiled absently, amusement in her eyes as if the question entertained her. “I do, yes,” she said simply, turning her own tea cup slowly between her hands.

The immensity of what she was suggesting with such a candid response was staggering. “My dear Corinne, I must implore you to consider your actions with more care,” she said delicately, clasping her hands in her lap. “There is no reason for you to make such a grand concession to the Ferelden throne, certainly not after their woefully inept response to two militarized forces waging war across their own land at the expense of their own people.”

Corinne tucked her feet up onto the chair beside her, and Vivienne did her utmost not to wince in dismay at the thought of her perpetually filthy toes on the delicate satin upholstery. 

“You have garnered the attention of the entire world, my dear,” she continued, sternly determined not to glare at the feet on her cushions. “The power you wield, the potential for change at your fingertips- there are none who could stand against you in truth right now.”

Corinne’s shrug a moment later was as noncommittal as always. “I have no intention of elevating myself to the level of tyrant or prophet,” she said, clearly uninterested in the conversation as she wound the end of her unbrushed braid around her fingertips. “I will not take power that does not belong to me- the world is out of balance enough as it is without my tipping the scales further.” 

She found it hard to believe that the granddaughter of such a powerful political figure could be so utterly maladroit at grasping even the basics of diplomacy- or personal grooming, for that matter. “The world is out of balance with alarming regularity, and the fact that people find comfort in looking to you as a leader does not automatically elevate you to the position of tyrant.” 

A smile tugged at the corner of Corinne’s mouth. “Nor does the blind adoration of the masses suddenly grant me the insight to lead.” 

“Your glibness does you no credit, my dear.”

“And neither does setting myself upon a pedestal of godhood,” she retorted, for once clearly uncomfortable with the topic. She was hard to unsettle, and Vivienne rather carefully withdrew. 

“You have expressed to me a desire to see change wrought in the world,” she said gently. Beyond the open doors of the balcony, the day was still, the air crisp and sharp and the sunshine warm on stone and on skin. It was the sort of day Skyhold had become known for- cool in the shade and warm in the light, the sky gently scudded with clouds and the mountains magnificently cloaked in snow. She had long since accepted that there was something embedded in the stone of the ancient fortress, something that crafted a very literal sanctuary around the borders of the valley. Whatever magic it was, it was certainly nothing to be trifled with. “No such change will come to pass if you surrender your authority as rapidly as you accumulate it.”

Corinne let out a frustrated sigh, flopping backwards even further into the seat. It was remarkable how she could possess so little in the way of comportment, when she could alternatively wield such an indomitable sense of presence. “I am no politician, or spokesperson,” she said plainly. “I have no desire to be a figurehead, and yet here I am. Your advice is nothing I have not already heard from Ishaaro.”

“Your grandmother is a sensible woman.”

“She is a seeress and a matriarch and a politician, and has had a lifetime to adjust to such positions,” she said, huffing out a breath to unsettle the section of fringe that was dangling loose across her forehead. “Nor is she the only one- Arlessa Isolde gave me innumerable lectures while I was a guest with her, as did the Grand Enchanter, and now I find myself once again urged to step into a realm of responsibility that I am not entirely comfortable trusting myself with.”

Vivienne pounced upon the moment. “And that is why you have such trusted advisors by your side, my dear,” she said soothingly. “Those of us with far more experience who can help you to navigate the treacherous waters you find yourself in.”

The glint of amusement in Corinne’s eyes was enough warning that she had misjudged her. “I’m so glad we’re in agreement on that,” she said, taking a slow drink of her tea. “It’s why I’ve asked Josephine to invite Ferelden to send an ambassador to our court, to advise on any legalities that should arise from our work there. Our first offer is to maintain Caer Bronach as a coalition, so that our presence does not infringe upon their sovereignty.”

She blinked slowly, and took a moment to compose her response. “My dear Corinne, I cannot with good faith encourage such a decision.”

Corinne’s lips twitched with that same hint of a smile again. “You would not be alone,” she said, still bizarrely amused by the conversation. She was such a peculiar young woman. “I have already had the dubious honour of hearing in great detail from Leliana why it is a grievous threat to our intelligence network.”

“She is a sensible woman, and you would do well to-”

“But, I was supported in my decision by both Josephine and Cullen,” she continued. “In Josephine’s words, a physical, working alliance with Ferelden is a far stronger acknowledgement of our legitimacy than any carefully worded promise at a gala. Furthermore, with Fereldan troops manning the garrison, it spares our own troops for deployment elsewhere- and given how stretched our resources are at the moment, it can only be a good thing.”

Vivienne sat back slowly, a calculating expression on her face as she turned over Corinne’s words in her head. “You were never undecided at all,” she said a moment later. “You were quite comfortable with your decision and had no intention of seeking my counsel.”

“I _did_ want to hear your opinion, Vivienne, believe it or not- I do value your advice highly, and your respect for my grandmother endears you to me greatly.”

“But?”

“But I had already made up my mind, yes,” she said, smiling mischievously. “And besides- there are already ambassadors here from other causes and other nations. Lady Hawke has been invaluable in representing Nevarra, and we would have lost hundreds in the mountains after Haven had we not had Lasair and Maleek with us.”

“That is because Lady Hawke serves as more than an ambassador, and brings with her her own men and unique skill set, and the same can be said for the Avvar. There is nothing that Ferelden can offer us that we do not already have ease of access to.”

“We can have their friendship, and that will be no small thing.”

She would not be swayed, and so the invitations were carefully worded by Josephine and sent by their fastest ravens. 

Vivienne held her tongue, and quietly watched to see which way the die would fall on this new gamble. 

***

Teagan Guerrin did not like to think of himself as a politician, so much as a man who had lived through far too many absurdities and met far too many people, and somehow such a colourful life translated to mean he was in possession of some kind of political acumen. It frustrated him, on occasion, how the tragedies and traumas of his life could be held up as some indication of his great worth as a statesman; quite frankly, he’d be more than content to live in quiet prosperity, to see to the needs of his people and not look beyond his borders to engage with far more competent wordsmiths than he. 

Fate, he had found, was never quite in his favour when it came to such whimsical hopes, and so it was that he found himself in Denerim, and more specifically in the Royal Palace, seated across from his not-quite nephew...

“I thought we’d come to the understanding that I was not precisely interested in any more foreign jaunts,” he said wearily, leaning back in the comfortable leatherback chair that King Alistair Theirin had squirrelled away in his own private parlour. “Especially under the guise of diplomacy.”

“Come now, Uncle, it’s _hardly_ foreign,” Alistair scoffed, hooking one foot up on his knee. He slouched deep into the chair, his plain linen shirt rumpled, and hardly the calibre of clothing one would expect from a king. His decade on the throne had taken away some of the boyish edges to his face, leaving sharper lines and keener senses than the youth he’d been during the Blight- but the boy still lurked there, creeping to light when unobserved. A slouched posture and a propensity for jam tarts for breakfast were little flickers of the dirt faced boy who’d slept with the dogs and climbed over the rooftops of Redcliffe castle all those years ago. “It’s practically on our doorstep- just a merry jaunt down the road and-”

“And into the middle of the Frostbacks,” Teagan finished dryly. “And I’m only ever _Uncle_ when you want something from me.”

“You’ve gotten suspicious in your old age, Teagan, you’re practically senile. We’ll have to put you out to rest somewhere quiet like Eamon.”

“Were I a more suspicious man like you so claim, your Majesty, I’d be inclined to worry that you were threatening me.”

Alistair pressed a hand over his heart and let his head roll back against the chair. “Resorting to ‘ _your Majesty_ ’ so early? Teagan, I am gravely hurt by your mistrust,” he said, his tone extravagantly dramatic.

“Consider it an apt rejoinder for your use of Uncle, earlier.”

Alistair tipped his head to him in acknowledgement. “Excellent point- which is why you are such a perfect choice for Ferelden’s Ambassador to the Inquisition. You’ve got wits enough to match me, so surely you’ll do just _splendidly_ with them.”

Teagan cast him a knowing look, which Alistair pretended not to notice as he perused the remaining tarts and pastries on the small table between them. With a sigh, Teagan pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to wince at the headache he could feel building behind his eyes. “You do recall that my last attempt at diplomacy very nearly ended with my international humiliation and Ferelden inevitably needing to declare war on Orlais in order to save face?” 

“Yes, yes, as if I’ve been allowed to forget it by anyone,” Alistair said, sounding exasperated for the first time that morning. “And for what it’s worth, you did a far sight better than me- I would have just punched the git right there in the ballroom.”

“Alistair, for the love of Andraste, do _not_ refer to Grand Duke Gaspard as a git within hearing range of- well, _anyone_.”

Pausing to take a bite of an overflowing jam tart, Alistair chewed thoughtfully for a moment before saying “You don’t count, because you agree with me.”

“That’s beside the point- he may still win the civil war, and then we’ll be left with an imperialistic fanatic on our border who is well aware that the King of Ferelden called him a git.”

“He _is_ a git, though. You can say it here.”

“I’d rather not.”

A triumphant expression flickered over Alistair’s face, marginally ruined by the flakes of buttery pastry on his chin. “See?” he said merrily. “You’re so much better at holding your tongue than me, you’ll make a fantastic diplomat.”

Teagan sighed again. “Alistair-”

“It was Anora’s idea,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. “She thought that- after the less than stellar introduction we had to the Herald in Redcliffe, well, it was somewhat politically savvy for us to send someone powerful and sensible and with family connections to the throne-”

“And someone who could supervise the ongoing contact Isolde has with the Inquisitor,” he finished for him.

Alistair didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Well, I’d be a fool to just sit on my hands given how chummy they’ve become,” he said. “Next thing I know they’ll be trying to secede and declare some kind of mage utopia, with little Rowan as some kind of Child-Empress.”

“My niece is spoiled enough as it is, I hardly think we need to implant ideas in her head about the possibility of being some terrifying tyrannical toddler.”

“ _Exactly_ \- which is why you’re the perfect fit to join the Inquisition as our official Fereldan Ambassador.” Alistair took another bite triumphantly of the tart, and a glob of jam fell down onto his shirt. “If Isolde’s going to behave herself around anyone, it’s you,” he said around a mouthful.

“I am not the woman’s _keeper_ , Maker’s _Breath_.” 

“She likes you enough to actually talk to you, which is a far sight better than I’ve achieved with her.”

It was a losing battle, and he knew it; Alistair had perfected the art of deflection and glibness, and could talk circles around even the most patient of advisors simply by nattering endlessly until they gave up. He was far more clever than he liked to give on, and Teagan was reluctantly proud of him for it. 

He rubbed at his eyes wearily- proud or not, he did not relish the thought of uprooting his life and relocating to a drafty old keep in the middle of the Frostbacks. He wasn’t as young as he’d once been, and there were any number of aches in his bones that didn’t take kindly to the cold. “You’re determined to go through with this, I take it,” he said, not so much a question as a statement. 

“If it’s not _too_ much trouble,” Alistair said mildly, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. 

“Do you even think she is the Herald of Andraste?” Teagan asked seriously, threading his fingers together and resting his hands on his belly. 

Alistair waved the remains of the tart in a dismissive gesture. “What I believe doesn’t matter,” he said matter-of-factly. “She’s got a powerful following, and an army, and she’s managed to confront both the rebel mages and the mutinous templars without losing her head, and now she’s got some kind of god-creature nipping at her heels. At what point does my opinion become relevant to any of _that_?”

“It’d be nice to know if only so that I can best represent your interests to her court with minimal misunderstandings,” Teagan said wryly.

“Oh, _that_ ,” Alistair said, stuffing the last of the tart into his mouth. “I trust you. Anora trusts you. If you can grit your teeth and get through an evening with Grand Git Gaspard, you’re obviously capable of anything.” 

“So eloquent of you, Your Majesty.”

“See, and there’s the ‘ _your Majesty_ ’ nonsense again, just when I thought we were doing better.” 

Teagan leaned forward and plucked a lemon tart from the waiting plate, groaning a little as he settled back into the chair. “I reserve the right to grumble about being packed off to the bloody mountains-”

“I know, I know, old bones and what not, we’ll make sure to send plenty of warm slippers with you.” At Teagan’s flat look, Alistair became suddenly very interested in brushing the crumbs from his shirt, but couldn’t hide his irascible grin. “I can even send their seneschal a note telling her how very delicate you are in your old age and that you are to be treated with the utmost care.”

Teagan tried to hold his stare, but it was too much; he chuckled and looked away, shaking his head. “Maker’s Breath, sometimes it’s like talking to Maric again,” he said ruefully, taking a careful bite of his selected snack.

A whisper of something- grief, perhaps? Regret?- passed over Alistair’s face for a moment before the grin was firmly back in place. “A Rivaini mage blundering about in the name of the Maker when Rivain is on the verge of some kind of religious secession,” Alistair mused, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t envy you, Teagan.”

“I am, of course, honoured by your choice of long-suffering fool.”

“You are my favourite long-suffering fool, Teagan, I model myself after you in all things.”

“Maker preserve us, don’t do _that_.”


	2. Chapter 2

Vivienne stood on the balcony, drumming perfectly manicured nails on the stone balustrade as she watched the riot of activity in the courtyard below. 

The Fereldans had brought dogs with them. Of _course_ they had. How could she have expected anything else from a people who were so determined to lavish praise upon their hounds that it was a surprise they hadn’t tried to appoint one as regent during their civil war a decade earlier- although she had heard rumours that Lady Cousland had tried to discredit the solemnity of the proceedings by trying to have her own mutt fight a duel of honour for her. 

There were a half dozen of the brutish creatures, bounding about and barking excitedly, weaving in between the legs of the crowd and jumping up to press muddied paws against the shoulders of their hapless new friends and slobber all over their faces. Gifts, apparently, a gesture of goodwill to the Inquisition, directly from the Royal Kennels in Denerim. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, watching as Sera disappeared completely beneath the giant dog that had made a beeline for her, the sounds of her cackling giggles and shrieks echoing up to where she stood.

She had no problem with dogs, to be honest- mabari in particular were remarkably intelligent creatures, far more than the yapping lap-dogs that the ladies of the Orlesian court seemed so fond of dragging about with them. A well trained hound was an asset not to be sniffed at, but the over-exuberant mud-soaked monsters dashing about in dizzying circles in the yard were such a painfully amusing metaphor for every Fereldan she’d ever met that she didn’t know whether to laugh or shake her head disapprovingly and carefully barricade herself on the balcony.

Sera reappeared from underneath her new canine friend with a whooping cheer, utterly drenched in mud from top to toe as she threw her arms around the dog’s neck and let the beast slobber enthusiastically all over her face. 

Barricade herself on the balcony. _Definitely_ barricade herself on the balcony. 

She heard movement behind her, the faint jingle of armour and the creak of leather, and she glanced backwards to see Cassandra moving to join her, the flat expression on her face speaking leagues of her displeasure. 

“My dear Cassandra,” she said by way of greeting, gesturing for her to join her at the balustrade, “here I was assuming you would be all a-tither at the arrival of a great romantic hero such as Lord Guerrin.”

Cassandra cast her a scathing look, but there was a faint tinge of pink in her cheeks as she turned to survey the courtyard. “I have no quarrel with Lord Guerrin,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest- ostensibly to stop herself from fidgeting. She made no effort to hide the myriad of tells that would see her ruined should she ever attempt The Game with any real intent. “His efforts for Ferelden during the Blight were incredibly selfless and honourable, and on the rare occasion I have been in his company, he has been nothing but a gentleman.”

Vivienne fought back a smile; it wouldn’t do to laugh at a woman she was increasingly coming to consider a good friend. “I suspect you are biting your tongue, my dear- that statement hangs suspiciously as if there should be a ‘ _but_ ’ added to the end.” 

That seemed to be all the prompting Cassandra needed. “It is _ridiculous_ ,” she snapped, throwing a hand in the air. “We declared the Inquisition at the express insistence of the Divine, specifically so that we could supersede local jurisdiction to put an end to a greater threat. Our very purpose was to rise above the demands of kings and empresses, so that we could bring peace to the world.” She gestured to the courtyard in frustration. “And now? At every available turn, Corinne whittles away at the authority we have established, determined to offer every petty Lord from here to the Amaranthine Ocean an opportunity to claim a stake of our achievements.”

“Dare I say that perhaps it is not politically sound to refer to the King of Ferelden as a ‘ _petty Lord_ ’?”

Cassandra made a noise of disgust, casting her a withering look. “I have it on good authority that you share my opinion regarding Corinne’s decisions, so do not act so innocent.” 

“Perhaps- but I am sensible enough to know that I should not voice them so noisily.”

“I am not _noisy_.”

She couldn’t help it- she laughed. “My darling, your forthrightness is a delightful breath of fresh air sometimes.”

Now Cassandra was most _certainly_ blushing, and the scowl on her face did not seem quite so committed. “It is not like you make your desire for power a great secret,” she said gruffly, drumming her fingers agitatedly on the balustrade; below them, Lord Guerrin had dismounted from his noble charger, looking resplendent despite being travel weary as he handed the reins over to a waiting stableboy. One of the mabari in the pack broke away from greeting the crowd and barrelled up to his side, a magnificent russet coloured hound with grey around his muzzle who stood taller than hip height on Teagan. 

Vivienne clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “I do not seek power for the sake of power, Lady Pentaghast,” she said, “as I would have hoped you would understand.”

“I do not pretend to understand the minutiae of Orlesian court intrigue, or how such gossip translates to political power.”

“Cassandra, my dear, are you being deliberately obtuse?” Vivienne said, turning her attention away from the gathering below for the first time since the Ferelden entourage had arrived. “You, who have lived in Orlais for nigh on two decades now? You know as well as I that the accumulation of power is simply a means to an end, and for people such as myself- for _women_ such as myself, who have the temerity to be born not just as a mage but also against the lily-white ideal of Orlesian preference, political power provides a measure of safety and sanctuary that would otherwise be denied to us. Power that I might in turn use to assist others like myself.”

Cassandra’s jaw was set firmly, as if she was gritting her teeth, and her eyes were slightly narrowed, but Vivienne held herself calmly; the Seeker was hardly the most intimidating opponent, even at the best of times, and after a few tense moments Cassandra grimaced and looked away. “I apologise, Lady Vivienne,” she said roughly. “That was ill-founded of me- I meant no disrespect, but I see my intent did not hold true to my actions.”

Vivienne allowed herself to smile fondly, watching as Cassandra visibly relaxed at the gesture. “You can be so delightfully chivalric when you set your mind to it,” she said, reaching forward to pat Cassandra’s hand on the railing. The flush of pink returned immediately to the Seeker’s cheeks. “It’s positively charming, I half expect you to go charging out to defend my honour on the field of battle.”

The flirtation worked a treat, and the moment of tension between them was gone, with Cassandra yet again on the back foot without even realising how much of a concession she’d made to her. Clearing her throat awkwardly, Cassandra said “But, back to the original topic, you are not at all dismayed to see our Herald pandering to the King’s uncle?”

“It’s hardly pandering- I doubt there’s a person in the world capable of reducing our dear Corinne to such a state.” She paused, considering. “Well, except perhaps Lady Riana, poor thing, but I daresay none would find fault with Corinne seeing to the comfort of her cousin after everything she sacrificed in Haven for her survival.”

Cassandra grunted in agreement, obviously still sore from being scolded. 

“And really, it’s a very deliberate choice on the part of Ferelden’s monarchs,” Vivienne said, watching as Corinne shook hands with Lord Guerrin, her hair a tangled mess yet again. “At face value, it’s rather genial and soft-hearted- sending a family member, a man who is known for his bravery at home but his less-than-acceptable conduct in hostile environments-” 

“You are referring to his altercation with Gaspard?”

Vivienne smiled wryly at her. “Altercation is such a pleasant term for ‘ _almost blundered his way into declaring war_ ’,” she said. “But I digress- to the casual observer, Teagan appears to be a rather toothless choice. Pleasant enough, and with the obvious family connections to warrant his appointment.”

“Now I can’t help but feel that that statement hangs suspiciously as if there should be a ‘ _but_ ’ added to the end,” Cassandra said pointedly, smiling as she parroted Vivienne’s earlier choice of words.

“Lord Guerrin is neither a coward, nor is he a hot-headed lout- he challenged Loghain Mac Tir openly, but held his tongue against Gaspard. He deferred leadership to someone as untried as Lady Cousland, but has accepted numerous requests to serve Ferelden’s interests beyond their borders, which requires him to act with a great degree of independence.”

“And? The man is hardly an enigma.”

“He’s cautious,” Vivienne continued, keeping an eye on the crowd below as Corinne and Josephine began to escort Teagan up the stairs to the main hall. “He’s patient, and he knows when to strike and when to bow his head and step back- which is more than I can say for a great many people. More so, it can be no coincidence that the King and Queen sent him in their stead when Lady Isolde has been ingratiating herself into Corinne’s favours since even before the conclave.”

Cassandra glanced sideways at her, awareness slowly dawning in her eyes. “You think they do not share Lady Isolde’s stance on mages,” she said.

“Oh, I _know_ they do not- her heart is in the right place, bless her, but she is entirely out of line to involve herself so heavily in a struggle that does not concern her. Make no mistake, Teagan is here to mediate the situation, and intervene should Isolde’s ambitions grow untenable.”

And that was before one even got into the regional politics at play, sending Lord Guerrin back to work as an ambassador for an organisation that was heavily skewed towards Orlesian influence- it was a bold move having him smile and face the very same men and women who had stood and watched him face off with Gaspard not so long ago. 

It was exquisitely executed by Ferelden’s throne, all while cheerfully implying at an initial glance that their representative was a gentle older man, awarded the role out of familial ties.

She was impressed. It wasn’t the kind of subtlety she’d come to expect from a Fereldan. 

And the surprises did not stop there. 

Teagan was far more efficient than she expecting, and decidedly more clever. She watched from her gallery as he moved through the crowded hall over the coming days, careful to speak to everyone in attendance, always listening with an earnest expression and clasping hands warmly between his own as he greeted them. He was warm, and he was courteous, and his smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle- but he was watching, and he was learning, and after a few days she could see him begin to make very deliberate choices about the paths he took through the hall, and the conversations he stopped to engage him. 

Oh, he was far more clever than she’d assumed, and wasn’t _that_ a delightful surprise. It was bizarrely satisfying to find she’d underestimated an opponent, and he gave her plenty to consider as he slowly made his way through Corinne’s Inner Circle- in fact, it was nearly three days after his arrival before he finally made his way to her private gallery, clearing his throat politely from the stairs to announce his presence and wait for her acknowledgement. 

She of course had noticed him coming, and had made sure she was not engaged in anything too important; nonetheless, she made sure to continue writing for a good few moments before carefully setting her quill back in the nib and leaving her correspondence to one side. She turned towards the stairwell, hands clasped before her as she offered him a warm smile. “My dear Lord Guerrin,” she said, gesturing for him to approach. “It’s been far too long.”

His smile, for the most part, appeared genuine, and his green eyes displayed no trace of suspicion or hesitance. “If memory serves me correctly, my Lady, our last encounter was that unfortunate incident at the Empress’ gala,” he said, taking the proffered hand and pressing his lips to the back of her fingers. 

“So _frank_ ,” she said admiringly, as he took the seat opposite her divan. “I would not have expected you to admit to such an abysmal affair so readily.”

He laughed, laughter lines crinkling around the edge of his eyes. He had aged well, unlike a good many men attached to the Orlesian courts- his auburn hair was rather handsomely turning to silver, and he clearly kept himself to vigorous physical standards too, given the trim fit of his attire. He was, in all, remarkably handsome, and his age bestowed a certain air of reverence to him, something settled and patient that she appreciated almost as much as she did his appearance. 

“I have always found it best to own one’s mistakes fully,” he said ruefully. “It is not likely that the world will ever have pause to forgive or forget them for me, so I must embrace them.”

“A sensible mindset, Lord Guerrin, I commend you for it.”

He nodded his head. “I count myself lucky indeed to win the regard of a woman such as yourself,” he said. “And please, I must insist- if we are to be regular acquaintances in the endeavour of this Inquisition, you have my leave to call me Teagan.”

Vivienne sat back carefully, tapping a finger against her chin. “You embrace such casual engagement so easily, my Lord,” she said, carefully stressing the title. “That’s rather a bold move on your part, when you have no clear grasp of my own intentions towards you or my own political agenda.”

“I am a rather uncomplicated man,” he said as a counter to her point, “and I am quite sure I would be unable to outwit a woman as celebrated as yourself, so it is of no benefit to either of us for me to pretend otherwise.”

She took a moment to consider his words; it was at once remarkably candid of him and impressively bold, because he was absolutely right to defer to her, and yet... he’d maneuvered the conversation so effortlessly. 

“Very well,” she said finally. “Let us consider this the beginning of some grand new association.”

“And yourself? Surely you cannot be comfortable with a name given as a mockery.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said, genuine surprise in her tone as she settled back against the divan. 

Teagan smiled apologetically and bowed his head respectfully. “Madame de Fer? I simply wondered whether such a title was bestowed with your blessing, my Lady,” he said, clasping his hands before him almost earnestly. Maker bless him, he was far too sincere a man to have ever been a good choice as ambassador to Orlais; while she did not doubt that he had the conviction to act as an honourable man- she had seen him fumble his way through Gaspard’s wretched attempt at shattering the peace several years earlier, after all- he had not an ounce of wit in his handsome head, his intentions written plain on his features. So much for his careful control of the conversation. “It seems a common enough convention for powerful, beautiful women to be endowed with majestic yet vaguely threatening sobriquets, where their male peers never have to endure such... forgive me, but such ignoble nicknames.”

“Why, Lord Guerrin, your attempts to be charmingly chivalrous on my behalf have fallen a little flat,” she said, folding her hands delicately in her lap, a deliberately controlled version of his own gesture moments earlier. “The title _Madame de Fer_ is one hard earned, after years of carefully playing the ballrooms and parlours of Orlais. The persona itself and my use of it can hardly be called ignoble _unless_ you meant it as deliberate impudence.”

“My Lady, I meant no disrespect to you, nor your use of the title,” he said apologetically. “I was merely curious- it does not strike me as a name given to you in kindness.”

“Nothing in The Game is given in kindness, my dear Teagan. Perhaps that should have been the lesson you took away from your years as ambassador, more than anything.”

Teagan smiled ruefully, the corners of his eyes crinkling along well worn lines that suggested his was a life full of laughter. “And yet all I find is that, year after year, beautiful women have a discerning talent for leaving me utterly tongue tied.”

Vivienne leaned forward, resting both arms on the top of the divan as if she was intending to whisper something scandalous to him. “I would suggest, my Lord, that perhaps the problem lies within your own dubious grasp of social graces, and are not due to the particular talents of the _beautiful women_ you encounter.” 

He pressed one hand to his chest, just above his heart. “I am grievously wounded, my Lady,” he said, climbing to his feet. “You have made your point, and I cede the discussion to your far superior wit- I shall leave you to the privacy of your personal correspondence.”

He bowed formally, with no hint of condescension in his smile, and made his way back towards the stairwell. His foot had just landed on the first step down when she cleared her throat quite pointedly behind him; glancing back over his shoulder, he nodded in acknowledgement. “My Lady?”

“If you find the title so distasteful, you may refer to me instead as Enchanter or Lady Vivienne,” she said, waving her hand rather magnanimously. “Additionally I have found no reason to object to your continued use of ‘my Lady’, either.”

His smile, when it came, was the sort that she imagined set simple Fereldan farmgirls to swooning, but she was made of sterner stuff. “As you wish, my Lady,” he said quietly, bowing quickly in her direction before continuing down the stairs. 

Well, perhaps not quite such sterner stuff.


End file.
